


Love and Administration

by janiejanine



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-25
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2017-11-04 06:59:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janiejanine/pseuds/janiejanine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of ficlets about Seneschal Varel, Mistress Woolsey, and their relationship, or lack thereof.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There were few things more boring than an oath-taking ceremony. Varel would never fidget - he was too experienced for that - but the new Warden-Commander had to be chafing.

As soon as the speeches were over, and there'd been a minimal amount of mingling, he drew her away from the crowd and murmured "Let me know if you want the nobles cleared out."

The Commander choked back a laugh. Varel hadn't pegged her for a formal sort, and he was gratified to see that his initial read had been correct. But then, it usually was.

A disapproving sniff came from somewhere to his right. He turned. Of course. Mistress Woolsey.

She  _was_  good at her job, he thought grudgingly. The Keep hadn't been this flush in the pocket for years; he certainly couldn't fault her financial sense. But the woman was too damned stiff. Everything about her was cinched up tight, from the laces of her dress to the coils of hair on her head. Had to be, he supposed, to keep that stick firmly lodged-

"Do you need something, Seneschal?" she asked, eyebrow arched.

"No," he replied shortly. He shook his head and set about emptying the hall.

After the last of the nobles had finally made his way to the door, Varel stood at the head of the room, supervising the cleanup while he waited for the Commander to finish with Captain Garevel. It appeared he'd have some competition for her attention, though; he spotted Woolsey sitting in one of the hard wooden chairs, back straight, apparently waiting for the same thing. As he watched, she looked around, as if making sure no one was looking, and picked up a stray flower from the centerpiece on the nearest table, raising it to her nose. She closed her eyes, inhaled, and smiled.

He'd never seen her smile before. It softened her face and brightened her eyes, and she looked...actually rather nice.

Hmm. Maybe not so uptight, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

Mistress Woolsey laid down her quill and pinched the bridge of her nose, squeezing her eyes shut. She'd been hunched over dusty books for at least three candlemarks, and her head ached from squinting at the faded brown ink.

These accounts - these  _bloody_  accounts, she thought defiantly, though whom she was defying, she wasn't quite sure - were an absolute mess. How did anyone get anything done? Brave and deadly the Wardens may be, but they had no concept of organization.

Bloody Wardens.

The door to her office creaked open and she jumped, narrowly avoiding poking herself in the eye. There was only one person who would feel free to stroll in at this late hour without knocking: Varel. Wonderful. More bickering about procedure was the last thing she needed. He never let her forget that she was an outsider, and Fereldans had their own way of doing things. She half expected him to start marking his territory like a dog.

He had some good points, she supposed. He was certainly efficient. He wasn't bad-looking, either, but a full head of hair and a fine backside only got you so far.

She barely managed to smooth her hair back and put on her best imperious expression before he made it all the way into the room. "Yes?" she said.

"I brought you...I thought you could use...well, here." He held out a steaming mug.

She eyed it dubiously. "What is that?"

"It's chocolate, from Antiva. Came in on the last caravan," he replied.

She accepted the mug and blew across the top to cool it before taking a sip. It was smooth and sweet and rich and certainly the most delicious thing she'd tasted since coming to Ferelden. She closed her eyes, a small sigh of appreciation slipping out before she could stop it.

"Thank you," she said.

He responded with a nod and a noncommittal grunt. Was he  _blushing?_  Surely not. She'd been sitting in the dim light too long, and her eyes were playing tricks on her. Either that, or living with the Wardens had finally driven her as mad as they were.

When they'd first met, the first thing she'd noticed had been the lovely color of his eyes. Of course, that good impression had fled the moment he opened his mouth, but they were still nice, and here, in the glow of the candle...well. She scratched "not bad-looking" out of her mental ledger and replaced it with "quite handsome, in the right light".

Her eyes met his over the rim of the mug. She smiled, and for a fleeting moment he looked startled. Then he smiled back, and she stopped thinking about accounts altogether.


	3. Chapter 3

Overseeing the day-to-day operations of a fortress didn't leave much time for relaxation. It was the little things, Varel found, that made the moments he got to himself worth it.

Most people would have gone to the library, but he’d explored every closet and corner of the castle, and he knew that the most comfortable chair in the entire Keep was actually located in a tiny sitting room near the top of the north tower. The room was an afterthought, too small for an office and too large for a closet, and it was always deserted.

He settled back, nestled deep into the cushions, with a book in his hand and a steaming cup of tea on the side table. Everything was perfect. He closed his eyes and let the quiet wrap around him like a blanket.

The silence was broken by the echo of footsteps coming up the tower stairs. He looked up, dismayed, as Mistress Woolsey appeared in the doorway.

“Oh,” she said, stopping short.

“Can I help you?” he asked. Maybe he’d get lucky and she’d go away.

"I come up here when I have the time. I like the quiet. However, since it's apparently occupied, I'll go elsewhere." Her eyes lit upon the book in his hand. " _The Magister and the Milkmaid_?" she asked, eyebrows raised.

"I was returning it to the library," he replied, with all the hauteur he could muster.

"It certainly looks like it." Her gaze swept pointedly over the cozy scene, which could not look less like what he had claimed to be doing.

"I was...that is..." He cast about wildly for an explanation, then gave up. There was no good explanation for this.

She let him stew for a moment--enjoying his discomfort, no doubt--before she spoke. "As it happens, I have read that particular work. It was enjoyable, if a bit...whimsical."

"Really? You don't seem the romantic type."

"I'm not. But that doesn't mean I can't enjoy fiction." She eyed him speculatively. "Have you come to the part in which he demonstrates the more intimate uses for creation magic?"

Varel choked on his tea. "I don't believe I have," he managed, after an undignified bout of coughing and spluttering.

"What a shame," she murmured, lips twitching. "It's very educational." She raised a hand to her mouth as though trying to hold something back. The gesture was unsuccessful, and a peal of laughter escaped through her fingers.

It was the first time he'd ever heard her laugh. It was delightfully low and warm and went through him like a knife through butter. His surprise must have shown on his face; she quickly sobered and grumbled, "I do laugh sometimes, you know."

"Could've fooled me."

She made a noise which, had anyone else made it, would have been called a snort. "For someone so detail-oriented, you are remarkably unobservant."

"I have better things to do than observe you," he said.

"You ought to. You might learn something."

"What, exactly?"

"Perhaps a little order--"

"Immobility, you mean."

"I mean logic! Organization! _Anything_ to make things easier in this den of lunatics."

"It's no wonder, with you looming over them like a strict tutor. I'm surprised you haven't ordered me out to cut my own switch," he shot back.

Woolsey’s eyes narrowed. "I'd like to switch you, you interfering old trout."

The fragile thread holding his temper in check frayed and snapped. "Mistress," he said, drawing himself up, "You are a grouch and a miser."

"And _you_ are an infernal busybody!"

The words rang in the sudden silence. They gazed at each other, equal looks of surprise on their faces.

"How long have you been holding that in?" Varel asked.

"Since the day I met you," Woolsey said ruefully. She perched on the edge of the side table, spine straight.

"We're too much alike," he said.

"Alike? Us?"

"Determined. Set in our ways." His voice softened. "Too stubborn for our own good."

"Hmph," she said.

Without thinking, he said, “It looks better on you.”

"Are you being sarcastic?" she asked sharply.

"No, I..."

"I don't appreciate mockery." She turned. He'd seen her sweep out of rooms often enough to know what that gesture meant.

"Wait!" he cried, and froze.

He didn't know why he'd said it. He'd come up here to be alone, half an hour ago he'd wanted nothing more than to be rid of her, but his mouth had opened before his brain had had a chance to catch up.

He only knew one thing: he didn't want her to go. He didn't have an excuse, but he didn't have anything to lose, either.

"I think this chair might be big enough for two, if I move over. Would you like...?" He gestured awkwardly across the vast expanse of cushion.

For several long moments, she assessed him, eyes shrewd, and he had the sudden, unshakeable feeling that she could see every indiscretion he’d ever made from boyhood on.

"All right," she said, finally, and tucked herself into the space beside him, skirts arranged neatly over her lap. He could feel the warmth of her through his clothes, all along the length of his body, and he flushed.

She reached for the book, her arm brushing his. “You haven’t gotten to the good part yet," she said. "Do continue.”

He smiled at her and turned the page.


End file.
